Click
by Comrade Zed
Summary: Click. The raccoon loaded the shotgun with trembling paws. Click. His friend, a blue jay, pushed against the door with all his strength as a ravenous horde of the undead mindlessly tried to break it down. Click. Neither of them would survive the night.


Click.

A small, furry paw reached back into the box of shotgun shells.

Click.

Two. Six more.

Click.

The raccoon looked off to his right. His friend, a blue jay, had his shoulder pressed up against the front door.

Something was pounding on it from the other side.

Click.

He heard a familiar voice, grizzled and raspy. Skips.

The voice gurgled and moaned from the other side of the fortified door.

Click.

Nails scattered onto the floor. A board came loose.

Click.

The blue jay shot an anxious look at the raccoon.

His paw scrambled for another shell.

Click.

Just one more-

Click.

The door's hinges snapped loose from its frame, collapsing onto the blue jay, a writhing mass of blood-stained white fur pinning him down.

Mordecai let out a terrified scream. Rigby struggled to pump the shotgun.

What was left of Skips craned its head towards Rigby. It let out a gurgling moan, blood frothing out of the massive gash in its throat. An ear-splitting blast, and the yeti's head exploded. The shotgun's recoil nearly knocked Rigby off his feet.

Mordecai began to get up from under the blood-stained, wooden debris, but another creature was already coming through the doorway. This time, a human, with dark, clotted blood dripping out from where its lower jaw used to be. Its eyes locked with Rigby's, and its strained groaning peaked in intensity.

Its torso exploded in a shower of bone fragments and rancid meat, spraying the two walking corpses behind it, who quickly began to take its place. Again, Rigby pumped the shotgun, another empty shell clattering onto the floor, joining the first. Another blast, and another creature fell, its leg severed at the hip.

Mordecai stood up on shaky legs and prepared to run, but was soon dragged back down by a cold, rotting hand. A jawless torso gripped his leg with one arm, crawling towards him with the other. The bird uttered a panicked yell for help.

Rigby ejected another shell, then attempted to aim the shotgun at the crawling creature, the weapon shaking in his grip. As he fired, he felt a sharp pain in his wrist, involuntarily jerking the barrel to his right. A woman's midsection disappeared in a cloud of red mist.

His wrist now broken and useless, Rigby dropped the gun and sprinted over to his friend. He grabbed an outstretched wing with his good paw and began to pull with all his strength... but they were too strong, too many. Slowly, Mordecai was being dragged into the growing crowd of the undead. Rigby tried to gain a foothold, but it wasn't enough. More lifeless hands, paws, and wings latched onto the bird, dragging him further and further.

Rigby wouldn't let go. Tears in his eyes, he strained, pulled with everything he had.

Mordecai called out to Rigby. He told him to go, to leave him, to run. Rigby shook his head frantically, and kept pulling. Mordecai repeated himself, now yelling at the raccoon. For a moment, Rigby stood motionless. He looked around, scanning for an exit. They were coming through the windows now, pouring through every possible entrance. His eyes came to rest on the staircase. There was only one way to go. Up.

Tears still flowing, he looked back at Mordecai. He said he was sorry, so sorry, then, reluctantly... he let go. Rigby looked away as his friend disappeared into the growing mass of writhing, dead flesh.

Rigby turned around, then dropped onto all fours and ran, ran as fast as he could, ignoring the terrible pain in his wrist, until everything was a blur. Next thing he knew, he was in his bedroom, back against the locked door, chest heaving as he panted heavily. He could hear them just outside, wet slabs of meat sloughing off as they dragged themselves up the stairs.

He looked around, again searching for a method of escape. One window was boarded shut, and the other led to a long drop... straight into a mass of the creatures, who reached their arms lamely upward at the sight of the raccoon. There was no escape. No hope.

Rigby slowly made his way over to Mordecai's bed and sat down, staring blankly at the floor. He felt numb. Empty.

Suddenly, he noticed an old revolver sitting on the desk next to him. He picked it up, the blank, lifeless look never leaving his face.

Absentmindedly, he slid the cylinder out from the gun. One bullet.

The number echoed through his otherwise empty mind.

Just one bullet, he thought.

He slid the cylinder back into the pistol with a click.

Just one bullet.

The door bent inwards as something wet and fleshy slammed into it.

Just one bullet. The phrase began to lose meaning.

He pulled the revolver's hammer back with his good thumb.

Just one bullet.

The door's hinges began to come loose.

Just one bullet.

Rigby felt the barrel press against his temple. The door's frame splintered.

Just. One. Bullet.

He began to squeeze the trigger.

Just one-

A wave of incredible pain shot through Rigby's skull. For a moment, his senses were completely overwhelmed, his ears ringing and head throbbing with a splitting headache. But then, he heard... music. It was... oddly familiar. Suddenly, he recognized it; it was from a movie, probably a favorite of his, but... what, exactly? And why was it playing now? Shouldn't he be, you know, dead? Perplexed, he forced his eyes open, immediately focusing them on the source of the noise.

The end credits to 'Night of the Living Dead' scrolled down the TV screen.

Rigby stared silently for a moment, processing the situation... then chuckled quietly, part relief, part wry amusement. He picked himself up off the floor - undoubtedly having fallen off the sofa moments before - and, rubbing the newly-formed lump on his head, looked around at the shards of the glass bowl of snacks he had apparently brought with him. Just as he began to consider exactly how pissed Benson would be, (and exactly what he'd do to avoid having to clean up his mess) he noticed another noise, just barely audible over the TV. He immediately recognized the odd, avian snoring. Just to his left, sprawled lazily across the couch, Mordecai lay, his chest heaving slightly as he snored loudly, a small puddle of drool collecting under his gaping beak.

Rigby smiled slightly. He knew what he had was just a stupid dream... but it was still a relief to see his friend _not_ being eaten alive by rotting corpses.

For a moment, Rigby considered waking Mordecai up, maybe getting him to clean up the shattered bowl, then heading up to his nice, cozy trampoline... but, as terrible as that snoring was, he just didn't have the heart to disturb the bird. And, besides, cleaning up would be the responsible thing to do, and he usually left that sort of crap to Mordecai.

Shrugging, Rigby brushed a few crumbs off the couch, clearing away a little spot for himself. He hopped onto the cushion, immediately curling into a small ball and closing his eyes.

In the sudden absence of thought and vision, images from his nightmare poured back into his mind: his best friend being dragged off to be eaten alive; Skips' face, with loose, wet flesh hanging from his cheeks; the bedroom door finally snapping under the weight of a half-dozen walking cadavers... once again, the terrified face of a blue jay facing a horrifying, inevitable death. Somehow, that image, the sensation of releasing his grip, abandoning Mordecai to his death, the horrible realism of it all... that was the worst. He couldn't get it out of his head, no matter how hard he tried.

Thus, he lay there for several minutes, fitfully and futilely attempting to drift off to sleep. Finally, he gave up, and opened his eyes... which immediately focused on the still, blue figure across the couch. Once again, he was aware of Mordecai's presence, and, suddenly, he felt... safe. The images in his head disappeared, his body calmed, and his eyelids grew heavy.

Once again, Rigby drifted off to sleep.

Mordecai rubbed his eyes, waiting a moment for them to adjust to the relatively blinding light in front of him. He sighed irritatedly. Rigby left the TV on. Again.

He reached out a wing, groggily groping around for the remote. Wooden table... game cartridge... cushion... raccoon... ah, remote. Without hesitation, and without removing his head from the arm of the couch, he pointed the remote towards the glowing plastic box.

Click.


End file.
